Work Text:
Scott wiggles his tail and his funny little werebunny nose twitches.
“Be careful,” Derek warns, from where they’re crouched behind a bush. “He’s very dangerous. The curse should wear off soon, but until then, he’s just going to try to kill us.”
“Wait...so you’re saying...he’s a killer rabbit?” Stiles asks, barely able to contain his excitement.
Derek shoots him a warning look. “Don’t,” he growls threateningly.
“We must consult the book of armaments!”
Stiles would have gone on to quote the entire passage about the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch, but he was pulled suddenly from his dream by someone shaking his shoulder with considerable urgency.
“Sleeping,” he mumbled.
The shaking didn’t stop.
Stiles grumbled but rolled over and opened his eyes regretfully. He blinked blearily at Derek’s clearly distressed face. His eyebrows were knit together in the scowl that was once near-permanent and nowadays almost nonexistent. His lips were thin, brought together in a tight line. His forehead bore deep creases, much more prominent now than when his face was relaxed, where they were only beginning to form.
“Der?” Stiles asked, his sleep-induced mental cloudiness clarifying as he processed his husband’s distress. “What’s wrong?”
Derek seemed to snap out of whatever was making him look so terrified at the sound of Stiles’s nickname for him, if only a little bit. He shook his head, pulling back a little.
“Never mind,” he mumbled. “Just thinking. Sorry for waking you up.”
“Well I’m awake now, so you might as well tell me,” Stiles said, irritably. He loved his husband, but he also loved his sleep.
“No, it’s not important,” Derek insists.
Stiles punches him limply on his ludicrously well-toned bicep. “Tell.”
“I was just wondering,” Derek says hesitantly, “if you ever regret marrying the first guy you ever slept with.”
His face looks so open and vulnerable that Stiles can’t help the feeling of falling in love with him all over again. This was the man he fell in love with, who acted all macho and scary, but who was really sweet and sensitive and liked poetry and cats and running in the rain.
Stiles smiles, twining his right hand with Derek’s left, which bore his plain silver wedding band.
“You know, if it was anyone else, yeah, I probably would. But it was you, Der.”
Derek’s face clears, relaxing as he smiles softly, barely visible in the darkened bedroom.
Stiles burrows his face into Derek’s chest, whispering, “Now go the fuck to sleep.”